


Therapy

by Cornflaek



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Feels, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gen, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25923463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornflaek/pseuds/Cornflaek
Summary: Annette, Felix, Ingrid, Dimitri and Sylvain use an unconventional technique to work through their childhood baggage: Breaking dinnerware.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> TW for objects being broken and mentions of canon-compliant past trauma.

"So, uh… what exactly are you doing?"

Annette gasped and dropped the old ceramic jar she'd been holding with all the focus she could muster. The delftware had been held and passed down for generations in the house of Fraldarius, so naturally, seeing the array of shattered pieces on the ground, Felix must have been absolutely infuriated, or so she thought.

"Huh. That old thing finally broke."

The girl's eyes widened at her friend's apparent nonchalant response to what she thought was a relic being broken in front of him. Did… did he really not care at all? Annette swallowed dryly before kneeling to grab the pieces, but before she could do it alone, Felix joined her.

"H-hey, you're not supposed to do that! It's a really important family relic, and I broke it! I have to fix it, I ha-"

"It's just a jar, Annette." He sighed, and despite her protests, picked up more and more of the fragments to wrap in old newspaper and then throw away in a bin. As inconsolable as she seemed, Felix was entirely indifferent to that loss. To him, it was rather gaudy anyway. "My old man doesn't need to know about it, and I don't care."

"But it was so pretty!" The whine and insistent apologizing was all to familiar to Felix by now, and yet, unlike what his reaction to most other people would be, he remained patient. "I'm sorry, I... I was cleaning up the dust around the kitchen and you just startled me so much!"

"You didn't even need to do that." Once enough pieces had been picked up and properly wrapped, Felix was the one to bring them to the bin and discard them, but not without paying notice to something else. It was odd, in a way, but throwing away those fragments felt almost… good? No, good wasn't the word. Relieving, more like. It felt like he'd let go of something he didn't even know he was holding onto, and now that he had, he didn't wanna go back. Felix's chest felt somehow lighter, and he noticed every rise and fall as he breathed. Popping his head from the kitchen archway, he motioned for Annette to come closer, eyes now attentive to the full cupboard in front of them.

It was clean, just like everything else in this house. ...well, no, not everything, Felix's room had room for improvement if his roommates had a say in it, his swords, replicas and pillows usually lying around the desk despite everything having an actual designated place. Sylvain kept his stuff spotless and, in the swordsman's opinion, reeking of body wash, while Annette's room was always organized alphabetically, categorized in crannies and dens, and mopped and swept to absolute perfection. The cupboard, though, had just been dusted, and smelled like the floral disinfectant Annette handpicked at the store. Dinnerware and cutlery that came from all of their families was stuffed in there, mismatched yet seamlessly aligned in its own way.

The drinking glasses were mostly from the Gautiers, all tinted with a light golden hue in an "old fashioned" glass style. The plates came from old man Galatea, none seemingly coming from the same set, most of them chipped around the borders and many purchased secondhand even when they still sat in Ingrid's childhood home. The jars and the cutlery were all gifted kindly by Rodrigue, and while his son's roommates appreciated each and every one of them, Felix swore they never lost the lingering, metallic taste of his childhood meals, all prepped by a single father who's only knowledge of cooking came from hoping it'd taste fine. Annette contributed with teacups and spoons, the very same ornate sets she used to pour tea to her dolls with as a child, all retaining the smell of chamomile and roasted leaves. Finally, the pots and and pans, the crown jewels of this oddly attained collection, those came from Dimitri's family. They shone in bright brass, always cleaned to pristine condition by anyone who touched them, as if it were an egregious defilement to ever do so.

Seeing all of this aligned on the cupboard, Felix had an odd feeling tugging at his heartstrings. The carefully blown glass, the decorated plates, the meticulously scrubbed utensils... _Goddess_ , all of it was so…

"It's so… perfect, isn't it?"

Annette's inquiring tone snapped the man back to reality, and he produced a grunt from the back of his throat, eyes averting themselves from the kitchenware and to the wall. It felt like he was being rapidly entangled with a temptation to just… _break_ them.

"Too perfect." He said it seconds later than most would, the silence between him and Annette heavy as a rock. "I don't like it. Having my old man's things in _my_ house, I mean. It feels... Wrong."

"It… it does." The mousy girl seemed to feel much the same, and it surprised him. Felix hadn't shared his strange desire to destroy these things, and yet, the moment he looked at Annette, he felt her hand take his. "I don't like remembering. Not like this."

Remembering, to Annette, meant the tea parties and biscuits with her father, and the flower crowns she made for him and herself. It meant watching her mother dissociate and leave to a second place entirely, one a young girl like her could never fully comprehend. It meant knowing the precise moment, down to the minute and second, where she realized once and for all that the father she'd loved so desperately much would never come back to see her.

Her mouth tasted bitter.

Annette was the one to get on the tip of her toes, and pull from the cupboard a pink, pale hued teacup. She stopped to look intently at its every shape and drawing, every hydrangea flower on it, painted by someone she'd never hope to meet, and every hint of tea she could still smell in the porcelain. She felt how her finger slid into the rounded handle, the same one that used to be so big for her hands as a child. She brought it up to her face, and took in every aspect of it, from its floral scent to the cool press of porcelain on her lips, and when she was done, Annette threw the teacup onto the floor with all the strength she could conjure.

It left Felix with wide eyes and a pulse that he could feel in the top of his ears, the sensation of fight or flight was entirely what he needed. As he always did, of course, the man chose to fight, taking the second ceramic jar they owned and smashing it on the tiles below them.

The sound of it hitting the floor was deafening, but in a way that silenced every other thing in their heads. It was a liberating feeling of pure adrenaline and freedom, the porcelain pieces were the scraps of the strings binding them to the bittersweetness of the past. This was a revelation, an exhilarating one at that. Felix's breath was staggered, as if he'd ran a marathon, his chest rose up and down quickly underneath his black turtleneck. Annette's eyes were frozen, staring at the floor with the look of a woman who'd never seen such a breathtaking sight.

"Did… did we go too far?" Her words were the last bit of worry she held onto, and when she said them, a knot in her throat came undone. None of them looked away, but the moment Felix responded, Annette sensed the smile that crept upon his face.

"Not far enough."

He picked up one of her teacups so fast she couldn't see until the feeble thing was already in his hands, and the sound of it hitting the floor was music to their ears. Annette felt herself begin to smile, too, and even though by now she'd released his hand, she caught herself looking at it. Before they'd taken yet another piece of dinnerware, however, the doorbell rang. _It rang_.

Annette's head went blank when she heard it, again and again, impatient and persistent. She didn't move, and neither did Felix, but whoever it was seemed to have keys, because soon enough, she heard shuffling and the distinct turn of the lock.

"I always tell you, Sylvain, you don't have to go for the doorbell before we get the keys, and-"

Ingrid's voice died in a gasp and a murmur. She pulled her friends by their sleeves as she'd always done before, and without a sound emerging from the tightness of her throat, pointed to the remnants of their teacups and jars on the kitchen floor. The crime scene knocked the wind out of the three of them, they had nothing to say or do. Dimitri's hand came to his hair, tugging at the roots as if he were pulling it to wake himself up. Sylvain, on the other hand, stood frozen, brown eyes wide and lips parted.

There was no explanation that'd cover all the questions on their minds about _why_ Felix and Annette were standing in a pile of ceramic shrapnel, but even knowing that, Ingrid took a step forward and let her tone speak for itself:

"What _is_ this?"

"I-It's my fault, he-"

"Annette, don't lie." Felix cut the girl's excuse abruptly, but just as her plea was drowned so swiftly, Ingrid's voice rose above him.

"There's nothing you can say to explain this away, Felix." She was… bitter, he sensed. Her hands rested on her hips, and her expression had Felix reminiscing about a mother he'd lost way, _way_ long ago, before he'd lost everyone else that mattered. "You… you two broke all of this?"

"It wasn't an accident." He was curt with his words, always had been.

Dimitri's brows furrowed more hearing what Felix said, "Then it was on purpose?" He asked, and apparently, he was right. Felix nodded in silence, and Annette, upon seeing that, did the very same. "But _why_?"

"It's none of your business, boar." A sigh left Felix's lips, and Dimitri, much used to his treatment, persisted in his inquiry.

"Felix, those belonged to all of us. You can't just-"

"What, break them? I already did. If you want those filthy jars back, go ahead, the pieces are here. I'll sit and watch." His tone was venomous, and he wouldn't back down, or explain himself. That much was clear to all those present in the room. Annette attempted to mitigate his outburst by stepping forward, one of her small hands soon placed on Dimitri's.

"We… we were venting." She seemed to regret part of what she did, but as Dimitri himself could tell, this wasn't an exact apology. "I know it sounds awful, but when we saw those in the cupboard, we just… we just wanted to…"

"I get it."

It was the first time Sylvain spoke up since they'd come in and seen the mess. He seemed sympathetic, even when he looked away. The man had perfected his avoidance when it came to his inner demons, so much so he'd be able to call it an art. The tinge of melancholy in his voice, however, was genuine.

"I've felt it too. Whenever I reach for those damn things, I just… I wonder, you know? Just for curiosity's sake." His honesty made Felix's face heat up and Dimitri avert his gaze. It was raw, uncomfortable, and very much not 'Sylvain', but still completely Sylvain at the same time.

Ingrid stepped into the kitchen, footsteps loud over the shattered cups and jars. Her eyes scanned over the cupboard, meticulous and focused like a bird of prey, and when she found what she was looking for among all the other objects, she took it and closed the glass door behind it, never once looking back. It was a golden, antique goblet, made of ornamented glass and weighing more than it seemed it would. She held it in her hand like it was cerimonial, as if she were building up the courage and reason to start a toast.

Instead, Ingrid gave it to Sylvain. With her right hand, she passed the relic to him gently, and with her left, she pushed his hair behind his ear. His fingers wrapped themselves around the glass, the chill of it rose up his spine.

"This… this one was Miklan's, wasn't it?"

He nodded at Ingrid's words. It was, he could tell. There was a noticeable, yet functionally insignificant chip on the rim of the glass. To most, it meant nothing. To Sylvain, it was a bitter, physical reminder of the day Miklan used this very goblet to bludgeon him on the forehead and render him unconscious, leaving it up to a young Ingrid to take care of his wound.

"You know me so well." Sylvain teased his close friend with a voice drenched in nostalgia, but not for a past he'd rather relive. Not ever.

As the man held his brother's old goblet in his hands, he rolled it in his palms, the texture so painfully familiar and yet so foreign, in a way. Sylvain sighed and closed his eyes, his grip tight around the stem in a way that turned his knuckles white. With a last glance at Ingrid that was met with a subtle nod, he'd made his decision.

Sylvain smashed the golden glass against the kitchen wall.

The sound of it shattering silenced everything else in the room, and he breathed heavily after letting go of the rest of the glass, watching his reflexion in the scattered golden pieces.

"That… wow." Sylvain's lips curled into a grin, and he looked back at his friends as if he'd just had his own eureka. "That felt _really_ good."

"Sure seemed like it." Ingrid admitted, and shuffled next to the man to grab another piece of dinnerware, her deft hands soon held a light blue plate. Unlike the others, Ingrid didn't need her minute of reflection. She knew this was a plate her parents bought in a cheap yard sale, and that the chips and stains on the porcelain had been there for longer than she was born. This plate, and everything on it, it was everything Ingrid hated about her past, and so, when it fell to the floor with a loud crack, not a single soul in the kitchen was surprised.

She could see it then, Ingrid thought: the flavourless white rice, the only thing they'd be able to afford to eat, laying on the floor with the pieces of the dish that once carried. It wasn't real, she knew that, but it felt like she could reach out and touch every last grain. She could count them on her fingers the same way she could before, and every meal they used to have was punctuated by her father's insistence in having her marry someone wealthy.

"I guess I really can't be marriage material." The irony made Ingrid laugh at her own words. The others seemed to chuckle, too, and Ingrid knew it was genuine.

Sylvain chimed with a "Yeah, well, neither can I." She didn't even see him get a second glass, she only heard the sound of it hitting the floor to join her plate and so many other shards. Sylvain had broken another one of the goblets before anyone had time to even think of it. "That one's for my old man."

"Mm. Well put." She had to agree with him. Too many times she'd seen how Sylvain's Father treated him like property, like…

"He really does think I'm a studhorse, huh." He completed her thoughts out loud, or so it seemed. 

More and more shattering followed every word, Ingrid and Sylvain made it a game to find out how many pieces of dinnerware each of them could destroy first. Annette took her moments of peace to reflect before breaking her teacups, but they all ended with pink porcelain pieces on the kitchen floor and happy tears. Felix had already given an end to his two family jars, but he watched the scene unfold with a rare smile. Every sound and every ceramic piece, the sweet catharsis and relief it brought upon him was miraculous. He sensed his Father's words in every single one, a piece of teacup and glass for every time Felix had heard his brother died for a reason, beautifully and not at all in vain, all of it said despite Glenn having lived only fifteen years.

Dimitri was the only one who still stood back, paralyzed and left to drown in his thoughts. He heard them like they were with him, next to him, always listening and begging for redemption. A coil in his stomach kept him from advancing, and with every step he dared to consider taking, so came the persistent words of his Father, always letting him know he has a duty to perform. A duty, Dimitri thought, that was irreversibly and intrinsically attached to his guilt. It was his fault, wasn't it? All those years, and he still had the _gall_ to live, to remain and insist on breathing when so many of those he loved never had a choice after that day. He had no right to let them go this way. He had no right to join his friends in their cacophony, and leave behind the remnants of the demons that insisted on keeping him awake.

A warm hand rested upon his back, and a large, polished pan was pushed into his hands.

"…Felix, I-"

"Break it." Felix wasn't doing this to listen to Dimitri's broken reasoning. He pushed the pan onto him once more, and the decisiveness behind his eyes told no lies about his intentions. "If anyone can do it, it's you."

"N-no…" He didn't speak after that. Dimitri's head did enough speaking, much more than he would like.   
*I can't. I'm not worthy. I can't leave them behind.* It all rung on his ears, and it never stopped. He'd resigned to understand that it would never stop, even if it made his figure sulk and drop under the weight of his self-imposed pressure.

"Dimitri." His tone was firm, and so was his grip upon the blonde man's shoulder. Felix didn't joke, Dimitri knew. "Who gave *you* the right to be your own judge?"

Large hands came to take the pan's brass grip. It felt cold, foreign. Dimitri had never once cooked a meal in it. He touched the metal as if it were the very first time, experiencing every chill it brought upon him, every scratch on the brass surface, every dent his Father had made on the edge.

"You… do _you_ give me the right, my friend?" His words struggled to leave his lips, it was as if his very voice would drown and perish. Dimitri had his eyes on the pan he held, and nowhere else, but Felix knew when he was being addressed.

"You never needed my permission." The swordsman sighed, and his hand took hold of whatever part of the handle Dimitri had left exposed. They held it together, between the two of them, and looked at everything it had to offer. "But if it'll make you let this go, you have it."

Dimitri closed his eyes, and gave Felix a solemn nod before taking the pan in his two hands. He wielded it like a short weapon, and when he breathed in, he could swear it brought to him a _taste_.

"Thank you."

The pan hit the floor with a metallic ring, and Dimitri crushed it beneath his foot.

Annette held onto his hand after it was done, and gave it a squeeze to let him know what he needed to hear. _You did well._

It was the first time he heard those words in his own head.

None of them spoke. The shards on the floor covered the tiles and silenced their thoughts. Dimitri's eyes were glazed over, but slowly, his lips began to reveal a small smile.

"...thank you."

Still, no more words needed to be said. Annette wrapped her arms around him, and he gasped softly before smiling more and adjusting to her presence. Ingrid rolled her eyes with a smile, and walked over to hold his hand. Sylvain let out a chuckle, and seemed content enough ruffling Dimitri's hair. Felix, of course, decided not to move, but whether he liked it or not, a certain red haired friend of his brought him closer by the arm.

It was enough for Dimitri. Much, _much more_ than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my husband and friend for the beta reading!


End file.
